


Adrenaline Rush

by echoinautumn (maybetwice)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-06
Updated: 2009-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/pseuds/echoinautumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It was only a matter of time, really. This fic is in response to <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/1886.html?thread=3579486#t3579486">this prompt</a> at <a href="http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/"></a><b>st_xi_kink</b>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Adrenaline Rush

**Author's Note:**

> It was only a matter of time, really. This fic is in response to [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/1886.html?thread=3579486#t3579486) at [](http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/)**st_xi_kink**.

Chekov is politely quiet, rapt and attentive to Sulu’s every detailed word as he describes most recent planetary mission that is responsible for the evil-looking gash down his face and several phaser burns across his torso. It isn’t the first time they’ve done this, sitting in sickbay and talking while waiting for McCoy to finish with his other patients before coming to treat one or the other for whatever ails them at any particular moment. In fact, it isn’t the first time they’ve shared the other’s company at all, as they spend virtually all their waking hours together, working together on the bridge and then off-shift, doing what friends do. They talk about home, physics, work, their respective childhoods and families, relationships they’ve had or are having, sex… if it is possible to discuss it, it can be fairly well counted on that Sulu and Chekov have discussed it at some point or another. This informal debriefing is nothing new. When Sulu is done, Chekov examines the marks and nods in concession to his story.

“It is good that you are so lucky,” he remarks calmly in his clear, articulated speech, leaning back in the chair that sits next to the table on which Sulu is sitting shirtless, but doesn’t elaborate on the words.

Sulu laughs, a deep, amused sound that makes Chekov think that Sulu somehow supposes that he has just made a joke. “Lucky?”, he asks incredulously and shakes his head. “Talent, Chekov. Kirk isn’t the only one who can hold his own in a fight.”

There is a soft snort from Chekov, who lowers his head and mutters something in Russian. When Sulu asks him to elaborate in a language he actually understands, Chekov looks up. “You make it seem as if only you and the captain are capable of fighting.”

“You certainly haven’t shown any aptitude for it,” Sulu jokes and gives Chekov a shove that sends a neural alarm shuddering through his body. He ignores it and continues with a shrug, “I don’t think Kirk and I are the only ones who can fight, anyway.”

“You don’t know that about me,” Chekov argues, and Sulu thinks he looks almost ridiculously boyish, insisting that he is capable of what he is clearly too inexperienced and young for.

Shrugging, Sulu spreads his hands as best he can, almost in challenge. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says simply.

“I will show you sometime,” Chekov tells him firmly, and Sulu laughs it off.

It’s why it’s such a surprise when it finally happens.

There is a fierce sort of determination etched into the lines of the young Russian ensign’s face despite that his phaser has been knocked out of his grip. His expression stays cool and focused, even when alien blades whirl in a dance with the phaser fire around him. Sulu deflects the blow aimed at his head and fires his phaser straight into the torso of the alien warrior trying to cleave his head from his shoulders, twisting his body around the falling corpse and throwing caution and care to the wind as he hones in on the one thing that matters: _Go help Chekov._

By the time Sulu takes a few hard-won steps toward him, though, Chekov has already carved out a stronghold of his own, daring anyone to come near him. Even if he took nothing more than the basic, mandatory physical defense course in Starfleet Academy, Sulu realizes he shouldn’t be so surprised to see Chekov in top form. Two years aboard the Enterprise with James T. Kirk as captain, and anyone would know that it was not only advisable, but necessary for survival to pick up some sort of effective physical defense. Suddenly, with a jerk around him, it is as though the illusions of what Sulu has been _expecting_ to see are stripped away to reveal the underlying reality. Limbs that Sulu has been thinking of as lanky and awkward are still thin, but not without a slow build of muscle from effort and maturity. Chekov’s frame is small, but his face is hardening out of the puppyish charm that endeared him to the other crew members in a way Sulu realizes must have felt demeaning to a proud, brilliant young man determined to make a difference.

Most of all, it is the way he _moves_ that stops Sulu in his tracks, freezes him in place to watch Chekov’s intricate twist and dodge before turning and returning blows with a calculated ferocity he should have known better than not to expect. Each movement is swift, hands reaching out to block weapons without fear and delivering quick, disarming blows that don’t send the intruders flying as with Kirk’s opponents, but there is no denying that whomever Chekov took down wouldn’t be getting back up unassisted. Chekov is unflappable, absolutely composed and focused, and despite himself—despite that it is the worst time for it—Sulu feels a hot rush of arousal through his veins that won’t leave, even as he plunges back into the battle, only half-focusing on anything through the rest of the fight to take back the Enterprise.

It is another hour and a half after that before the ship is clear, they push on ahead, and the primary crew is dismissed for the day. Sulu barely pays attention as he pushes past Kirk to catch up with Chekov, who is already halfway down the hall, uniform torn and disheveled because he didn’t have time to bother with changing between the fight and the necessity of their return to the helm.

“Chekov,” he calls quietly, then again, louder, before he pushes into a jog and catches up when the boy— _man_ , he reminds himself—pauses for him. There is a bruise rising on his cheek, just below his left eye, that matches the split in his lip and the shallow gash across his chest that Sulu can see is the most severe of the rips in his uniform. He had intended to ask if he was alright, to open up the same casual, friendly discussion they have on a daily basis, but within seconds of standing beside Chekov, the same heat pulses through him unrestrained and so intensely that he realizes that it hasn’t actually gone away since he saw Chekov take down a foe easily twice his size with that fierce expression and determined lock of his jaw. He wills it to stop, wants so badly to restrain himself, but the flash of recent memory is brought on by the heavy, heady mix of sweat and adrenaline so suddenly that his mind stops dead.

Sulu can barely breathe for it.

And without regard for the fact that they are in the middle of a corridor, that Chekov could probably kick his ass for it, Sulu seizes Chekov’s wrist and slams it into the cool metal wall, ignoring the electric hum around them in lieu of the one that coils around him when he presses his lips hard against Chekov’s. Chekov doesn’t struggle, but doesn’t move at all for a full quarter-minute that lasts like an eternity to Sulu as he shoves his body against the one he has been mistaking for young and undeveloped for too long. He moans softly, a quiet groan that reverberates between the both of them, when Chekov finally moves against him. For a fleeting instant, he thinks the struggle is to push him away, especially when he fights to free his wrist from the iron grip Sulu has it in, except that Chekov is pushing back against him, fighting for control of the kiss rather than yielding or breaking away. Before he has the time to think of what it means, all Sulu knows is that Chekov is as hard as he is, as wanting and _ready_ , they’re still in the middle of the corridor and the footfalls echoing toward them cut so suddenly through the delirium of shortened breaths and unrelenting arousal.

Chekov turns Sulu’s wrist lock on him and pulls him down the hallway, stumbling over the awkward drag on his usual speed until they find themselves stopped by an equally awkward attempt for Chekov to input his access code that is hindered not by his accent as much as an inability to breathe properly. The code comes out husky and soft, and Sulu catches another moan before it slips out and ruins for a third time the sensor’s attempt to understand Chekov. Finally— _finally_ —they manage it and fall into his quarters, tugging insistently at uniforms before the computer can finish its compulsory greeting and close the doors behind them.

There is a short scuffle as they struggle for control again and Chekov falls back against the wall when Sulu presses the lock on the doors. His lips burn across the Russian’s neck for a scant few seconds before Chekov objects by shoving back at Sulu, daring him to complain or cry out when his rough fingers find one of the many bruises across his body while stubbornly ignoring Sulu’s prod of the blackening marks with fingers and fists while tearing the ruined uniform from Chekov with the same ferocity. They are both past caring for anything, least of all the state of obsessive order Chekov has always kept his quarters in while their clothes are scattered carelessly across the room. The only thing that matters is the still-rising heat that twists in his gut when Chekov raises the stakes again with a well-timed roll of his hips and Sulu yields for a scant second at the shock of Chekov’s bare cock sliding against his.

It’s just enough time for Chekov to seize control, Sulu should have known better than to hesitate for even a second because this isn’t even like lust or sex anymore, but more like the fight they’ve just finished. It is just as if the untreated wounds they should have taken to McCoy already are from this and not from invaders that don’t _matter_ anymore, except that Chekov fighting them is what started this; is what sparked the needy arousal in not only Sulu, but Chekov and— _fuck_ , Sulu doesn’t care anymore about control. Not when Chekov has him pinned against the wall in a faint echo of Sulu’s first kiss, his mouth pressed against Sulu’s with his hand stroking back and forth between their cocks until he’s stroking them together and Sulu can’t tell if he’s alive or dead, just that he’s lost control completely and it doesn’t matter how many lovers he’s had, or how many times he and Chekov have spoken so matter-of-factly about their personal lives without even the slightest touch of the lust that has him trapped in more than just Chekov’s canny hands.

Faintly, he’s aware that Chekov’s lips are hovering a few mere centimeters from his own, moving in a breathy chant he mistakes for a Russian prayer until he realizes that it is his name— _Hikaru, Hikaru, Hikaru_ —whispered in Chekov’s roughened accent. Sulu is only distantly aware of anything, even the slow drag of Chekov’s first name moaned just before the tightening deep in his abdomen that tells him he can’t last longer, even if he had the enduring concentration Chekov seems to. His knees buckle and Sulu feels frozen in place, even while his head falls forward onto Chekov’s shoulder and he comes into Chekov’s hand, biting into his shoulder to muffle the inevitable cry that stutters when Chekov slicks his come over their cocks.

There isn’t more than a few beats—Sulu hasn’t even come close to recovering—before Chekov’s breath falters past Sulu’s ear and his hand tightens on his cock. When he comes, it _is_ a Russian oath he gasps, and Sulu is torn between a sense of endearment and enhanced arousal when Chekov shivers and collapses against Sulu, holding onto him as tightly as Sulu knows he is holding him. Slowly, they shake and slide to the ground, renewed aches settling into the deep bruises neither has given any heed to.

Sulu drops his head against the wall, satisfied and breathless and utterly at a loss for what comes next, now that whatever barrier was there before, whatever barrier he didn’t even _know_ was there, is in shambles around them. Chekov doesn’t give him time to ponder it, already recovering and pulling him to his feet with him. He complies and considers saying something, anything, but swallows it down, mirrors Chekov’s lethargic grin, and follows him toward the bathroom.


End file.
